


Behave

by pridecookies



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Shameless Smut, Smut, blatant, but its cute or wahtever, look - Freeform, this is just
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:13:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27748828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pridecookies/pseuds/pridecookies
Summary: Isabela said she had a room at the Hanged Man, after all.
Relationships: Hawke/Isabela (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 4





	Behave

He knew where she would be but it didn’t lessen the pounding anticipation, the agony of it, the thrill of it. Meeting her was like being beaten with a proverbial rock, a shock to the system that lingered for hours. Isabela was a woman who was fully aware of her attractions. Why shouldn’t she be? It was folly to deny a basic truth. Black hair, amber eyes, a face so perfect it would make the Maker himself weep. When he walked into the tavern that day and saw her standing there with a knife to a strangers throat, he immediately knew this was the kind of woman that had the capacity to enhance his life and ruin his bed and he hungered for it. She was walking temptation, the acutest kind, the kind he chased with fervor. With one conversation, he felt it radiating off her in oceanic waves, ones she maneuvered with ease.  _ Pirate _ . Isabela was like him, she craved sensory experience, she fought to have fun. She intended to enjoy her life, seize ferocity. She wanted to fuck someone because she  _ wanted  _ to, not because she needed to or because it was the expectation of a partner. Malcolm wanted to be that someone and he wasn’t stupid. The rogue was very clear in her message. He absolutely was. 

Walking into the tavern felt different now, it was a place he had been countless times but never with the underlying electric current running through him like this. He opened the door and there she was, leaning on the bar in a tunic that she had no business wearing. White, cotton, short. Maker, so very short.  _ Fuck. _

It was like a taunt, reminding every man and woman in that bar exactly how desirable she was. It was power that she held in her hands and she knew how to wield it with dexterity, the way she could hold a dagger to the neck of someone that dared oppose her. She was skilled. Malcolm wanted to know exactly how skilled she was and the thought of it was more intoxicating than what the tavern itself could provide him. Breathing ragged, eyes roaming, the heat of her in his hands. Frankly, it was easier to be drunk at mere sight of her than drinking at all. Clearing his throat, he leaned against the bar support and poised himself confidently with an arm resting on it.

“I have to admit,” he mused, watching her as she threw him a sideways glance, “There never was anything I wanted at this bar. No offense,” he waved the unamused bartender off. “This isn’t exactly where you go for fine wine. The ale is too bitter, the wine itself is too dry, the beer is probably just water in pretense. Sometimes you want something from outside of Kirkwall. Now, where are  _ you  _ from again?”

“Hmm,” Isabela hummed, “Not Kirkwall,” she looked at him pointedly, with amber eyes that ensnared every breath in his lungs, “Drink isn’t what you want though.”

“Smart girl,” Malcolm purred, “You’re right. I want you.”

“Bold.”

“Honest. Never been good at dancing so I don’t intend to dance around this either. You wanted me here, I wanted to be here. Keep it simple.”

“I see,” she tipped her glass at him, “I like that.” 

“Good,” he murmured, taking a step toward her and resting a hand on her lower back, carefully. He leant in and spoke softly, “I know of several things you’d like.”

“Maybe,” she teased, throwing back her drink. She turned to him and smiled, warm and sensual and inviting, “Malcolm, was it? I almost forgot.”

“Yes.” He knew she hadn’t. “Why?” he asked, taking another step toward her and slightly gripping at her waist with hungry fingers, his mouth close to hers, “Did you just need a little reminder of whose name you would be screaming later?” 

“Rather bold of you to assume you won’t be screaming mine,” she sneered and looked him over appreciatively before her face sobered, “If we’re going to do this,” she warned, “Don’t bring feelings into it. I hate that.”

“That’s your concern?” Malcolm scoffed.

“People like to make love when they shouldn’t. Sometimes,” she grinned, “It’s just a fuck. Don’t be one of those people and you and I won’t have any problems. Got it?”

“Oh, Isabela,” Malcolm sighed, “Beautiful, terrifying, knife-wielding thing.” He leaned toward her, taking her drink from her hand, his other hand still resting on her waist and slowly slipping down to her hip. His grin was wolfish as he took a sip, “If  _ that  _ was your primary concern then I might be your salvation.”

She raised a brow and took the drink back, “Is that so.”

“My curse is your blessing, I don’t fall in love. If I am going to wear something that restricting I prefer silk ties and a bedpost.”

Isabela looked at him with utter adoration and rested a hand on his face, “Malcolm Hawke,” she purred, “Where have you been all my life?”

He shrugged, “In Lothering, probably fucking someone on a bale of hay.”

With that, Isabela grinned madly and grabbed his hand, leading him through the incessant noise of the Hanged Man. Malcolm felt the envy of several patrons hit his back like a force, she was the kind of woman that drove everyone that wanted her stark raving mad and he knew it and she wanted  _ him _ . It was very easy to immediately be physically ready to satisfy everything she asked for by merely looking at her, but her staggering beauty compounded with the satisfaction of knowing that he was about to have what so many wanted to touch and couldn’t? That was beyond erotic. That wa revelation. 

The hallways of the Hanged Man were ripe with the debased nature of its occupants, as they often were at night. Flirtation in the dark, breath laced with booze and bad choices in corners. Malcolm thrived in it. He was never obedient, not outside the bedroom. With a graceful pull, Isabela opened the door of the room she kept there and he was immediately inside it. There wasn’t even a moment to breathe, to look at where he was. She stated her intention and she intended to profit. 

The door closed behind him and the rogue pushed him against the wall. It hurt and he liked the way it did, the impact was promising. He wanted the beautiful agony of sore muscles after a good fight. Isabela wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him, lips capturing his. It was sparks behind his eyes when closed them, the scent of her, the taste of her. Glorious and holy in its heresy. He took her lead and wrapped his arms around her waist, mouth on hers, lips bruising with the collision. With one hand wrapped in her hair, he held her there. With the other, he employed years of ample experience to start to remove the obstacle between him and the only kind of pleasure that he found himself hopelessly addicted to. It was small but it was in the way, its barely-there presence driving him insane.  _ This fucking tunic _ .

In a chaotic tangle of limbs and heated breath, he traced the laces of the front and began to undo them. Isabela let out a frustrated groan and removed her arms from where they circled his neck and went to work on herself. Starting with her boots, she kicked them off without breaking the barrage of kisses that she controlled, ripping off the necklaces she wore. Breathlessly, she broke the contact and looked down at her own tunic and frantically removed it. She didn’t allow him a moment to take in what was under it before she seized his face again and pulled him to her. The denial was cruel.

“Wait, wait,  _ wait _ ,” he murmured against her lips. 

“No,” she growled.

“Isa,” he groaned, his voice hoarse, “ _ Give me a fucking minute _ .”

With an exasperated sigh, she released him and walked over to the bed in her underclothes, eyeing him as she did so. He was left panting, with his hair standing up on its end and unable to stay still. His entire body was quivering but there was too much to undo and it would be faster if he did it himself. With deft hands, he worked his way through the buttons of the mantle he wore and the belts that held what was precious in combat. Underneath that was easier. Linen shirt, underclothes, pants. The usual. Plenty of fun to take off. Isabela sat on the bed with a hungry expression. 

“Are you quite done, pretty boy?” she teased. 

“Mmhmm,” he smirked and tossed off the mantle that was acting as a barrier against her, reaching the bed in less than three strides. He fell on top of her and their lips tangled again, this time with less restriction. With hands that had performed the action many times before, she pulled off his shirt and began to undo his pants. He reciprocated in kind, removing anything she had left and finding himself unable to breath at the sight of her. It wasn’t just the ferocity of her kiss that left him that way, but it was her. Everything about her. Black hair, laid out like a halo, her scarf ripped off and lying carelessly on the floor. Her skin was like her eyes, amber and brilliant and vibrant and holding the promise of terrifying ecstasy. She was perfect. _And she knew it._

He moved his lips from hers to her jaw, her neck, savoring the way she tasted and the feeling of her hands in his hair as he moved down the expanse of her body until he reached her center of devastating intoxication, the wine he had wanted to drink the moment he met her. The heat of her and the heat of his mouth, the heat of the room. It was a specific moment he enjoyed, that little expansive silence before he was inside someone new and all the promise held in their expression. It was that moment and the moment that followed, the way they looked when he touched them, the sound they made, it fuelled him like lyrium. When he finally did, her moan was enough to get him high. Malcolm was a methodical man, patient and strategic and smart, even for all his chaos. There were things he knew how to do well and one of them was how to make someone inch closely to their threshold at his pace. It was working. She was close, he could feel it. It was right here. Until he stopped. 

“Oh,” Isabela breathed, her body tensing in his denial, “ _ Fuck you _ .”

“You’re about to, love,” he smirked. He moved, quickly, gripping her by her waist and positioning her against the pillows she had laid out, kissing her again, letting her tongue mingle with his to taste herself. Holding her, cradling her head with one hand, reaching down with another to enter her, he cherished the way she gasped. It was almost harmonious, her pleasure a coveted song he wanted to make her sing until she was too hoarse to speak.The way she felt around him was maddening. Unexpected, really. He didn’t think she would be that tight. _Pleasant surprise_ , he thought. Isabela wrapped her legs around him and he could feel the bones of her hips press against his as they moved. Tension built and ravaged them both until it was unbearable. She came first, he made sure of it. Twice. _Good_. He could do it again and he would. He wanted her exhausted and he wanted her addicted. He was. Hopelessly.

There was a savage combination of biting and grasping and sweating and it went on until it was a miracle they could move at all. Laying on his back, breathing fiercely, Malcolm laid a hand on his eyes and enjoyed the exquisite feeling of tired muscles and acute satisfaction. Potentially, the best he had experienced. He was debating whether or not to tell her that, though. Could keep it a secret, let her have it at the right time, when he wanted her to feel powerful. She laid next to him in a similar position, a wide smile on her face, amber eyes closed. 

“Malcolm,” she breathed.

“Mmm?”

“You,” she huffed, “are going to be either very good or very bad for me.”

“Yes, well,” he said, moving on top of her, lips hovering above hers, “I am both very good and very bad for most people. It’s what I do.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, resting a hand on his face, letting her thumb linger on open lips, “Very good at being very bad. Clever boy.”

“You make it easy,” he quipped, kissing her softly and resting his forehead against hers. He rested there a moment, enjoying the warmth that pooled there, and the way she smelled, how desire lingered on her like a garment she wore with ease. Pushing himself off the bed, he walked over to where his clothes were, pulling them on. Isabela watched, positioning herself to lay on her stomach with her hands under her chin, unashamed in her open observation of him. 

“Coming again?” she asked. The answer was apparent to both of them and didn’t need to be spoken. This wouldn’t be the last time they did this. But he did anyway.

“Yes,” he chuckled, “So will you, several times.”

She threw a pillow at him and he dodged it with a grin. Isabela snickered to herself, “You were pretty until you opened your mouth.”

His grin widened, “You like what I do when I open my mouth.”

She rolled her eyes and waved him off, “Yeah, when it’s silent.”

After he was done getting dressed, he leaned against the doorway and looked back at her. Gloriously wearing nothing but a smile, she eyed him with amusement, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. Satisfied, beaming, uncomplicated. 

_ Maker.  _

He opened the door a crack to slip out, “Behave,” he purred. 

“Absolutely not,” she sighed and waved at him with perfect fingers. 

“That’s my girl,” he winked and left her. 


End file.
